The Battle of Steel and Blood

Chapter 11: The Battle of Steel and Blood

The sun had barely risen over the horizon, casting a muted, blood-red hue across the barren plains. The air was thick with the scent of dust and the clinking of armor. A vast stretch of land lay between the Lost Legion and the oncoming force of the Dothraki Horde, led by the Khal Jaro. It was a land where only death seemed to thrive.

The battle had been inevitable. The Dothraki were famed for their speed and ferocity, their warriors feared across the known world. But they had underestimated the men of the Lost Legion—a mercenary army hardened by years of fighting in the bloodiest corners of the world.

The young Targaryen, Aerion Starborn, stood beside his closest companion, Clement Celtigar, as they prepared for what would be their first true test. At just nine years old, Aerion had already proven himself more than capable with a sword, but this was different. This was war—a war that would shape the very course of history.

Barristan Selmy, the legendary knight who had guided Aerion's training, stood nearby, his eyes sharp with focus, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. Monford Velaryon, the head to House Velaryon, and Narion Qoherys, the commander of the Lost Legion, were in quiet discussion, reviewing their battle strategy. The vice-captains, Aurane Waters, Guncer Sunglass, and Thoros of Myr, all had their own responsibilities, making sure every man was prepared for the coming storm.

Aerion, his silver-gold hair now kept short and his armor fitted perfectly, looked at the horizon where the Dothraki horde was just beginning to stir. Clement, his friend and fellow warrior, was by his side, silent but eager. Despite their youth, the two of them shared a bond forged in the fires of training.

"Do you think we can win this, Clement?" Aerion asked quietly, his voice full of quiet confidence.

Clement smirked, his eyes gleaming with the same fiery determination. "We're the Lost Legion, Aerion. We've faced worse than a bunch of screaming horse riders. We'll show them the true meaning of steel."

Aerion smiled. His heart was calm, but beneath it, the blood of his ancestors—Targaryens, the blood of dragons—pounded in his veins, urging him forward. He knew, deep down, this battle would be the proving ground for something greater. A legacy that was his to claim.

The moment arrived with a suddenness that took everyone by surprise.

The thunderous sound of hooves shaking the earth filled the air as Khal Jaro and his 22,000 screaming Dothraki riders surged forward. They were a terrifying sight—thousands of men, each one on horseback, armed with curved akhras, their swords designed for quick, lethal strikes. The cavalry stormed forward like a tidal wave, their war cries rising to the heavens.

The Lost Legion, numbering 15,000 battle-hardened soldiers, stood ready. They had been trained for this moment, for the clash of armies, and they would not falter.

The Legion's front lines formed a perfect wall of long spears, held steady and strong. The pincer tactic was set: Narion's men would engage the Dothraki head-on while Monford's forces waited on the flanks, ready to collapse in on the enemy once the initial charge had been absorbed.

Aerion stood at the front of the Legion, his sword Starfyre gleaming in the early light. Barristan had given him explicit instructions to stay close by his side during the battle.

"You're not ready to lead a charge, Aerion," Barristan had warned him earlier, his voice heavy with the weight of experience. "Stay with me. Let the older men do the fighting."

But Aerion, ever stubborn and determined, could feel his blood rising. This was his fight. He would prove himself here and now.

As the Dothraki horde closed in, their howling war cries deafening, Aerion's pulse quickened. His red eyes gleamed with intensity as his grip tightened around the hilt of his blade. He could feel the weight of the battle bearing down on him, and yet, he remained still, calm, waiting.

The first wave of Dothraki riders clashed with the Lost Legion in a burst of chaos and carnage. The Dothraki were lightning fast, their curved blades cutting through the air with brutal precision, but the Legion was prepared. Spears met akhras with a resounding crash, and the clash of steel echoed across the plains.

But amidst the chaos, Aerion caught sight of a bloodrider—one of Khal Jaro's personal guards—coming straight for him. The man was a hulking figure, his armor adorned with the bones of beasts he had slain. His face was painted with warpaint, and his akhras shimmered dangerously in the sun.

Without hesitation, Aerion stepped forward, his eyes locked on his opponent. He was just a child, but his stance was that of a seasoned warrior. His red eyes were sharp, filled with the fire of his ancestors. He knew what had to be done.

The bloodrider, grinning at the sight of the young prince, spurred his horse forward, charging at Aerion with wild abandon. The two were on a collision course, and Aerion's heart pounded in his chest.

The bloodrider swung his akhras in a wide arc, aiming for Aerion's head, but the young Targaryen was quick, his sword already in motion. Starfyre danced through the air as Aerion parried the blow, the clash of steel reverberating through his bones. The Dothraki warrior recoiled slightly, surprised by the skill of the boy, but Aerion was undeterred.

In one fluid motion, Aerion stepped forward, closing the gap between him and his opponent. The bloodrider tried to slash again, but Aerion was faster. He ducked under the akhras, spinning around behind the rider and thrusting Starfyre into his opponent's side.

The blow was swift and precise, the edge of the sword sinking deep into the bloodrider's ribs. The man gasped, his mouth opening in shock, before collapsing from the saddle. The rider fell, his body hitting the ground with a sickening thud.

Aerion stood over him, his chest heaving with the adrenaline of his first true kill. The moment felt surreal, as if the world had paused around him. He had done it. He had taken his first blood.

But there was no time to celebrate.

As the Dothraki horde surged forward, the battle raged around him. The Lost Legion held their ground, pushing back wave after wave of screaming riders. Spears shattered, swords clashed, and the battlefield became a chaotic tangle of men, horses, and blood.

Barristan, his sword flashing as he cut through the enemy ranks, kept a close watch on Aerion. He knew the boy had proven himself already, but there was no room for mistakes on this battlefield. Aerion had to learn, and he had to learn fast.

The battle was far from over, and Aerion was already thinking ahead. The Dothraki had not broken yet. There would be more to come. He would prove himself worthy—not just of his name, but of the legacy he was meant to carry.

Today, Aerion Starborn had stepped onto the field as a warrior. And he would not fall.